


Sour cherry wine

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rings and friends, then, Precious, it all comes to nassty choices. Nice master has to give one to Smeagol, is it the cruel hobbit or the Precious? We can bites into necks with teeth, but master wouldn't let that happen to his friend? Friends have necks that go crack like fish bones."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sour cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> The phrase that Sam quotes the gaffer as saying comes from a letter by Tolkien on the subject of polyamory in Middle Earth.

When Sam was small, and troubled by some small important predicament, his mother would pull him up onto her knee and kiss his brow gently.

"It is always darkest, dear one, just before the sun returns."

He remembered those words now, and drew as much comfort from the old wisdom as he could. For surely, with things as they were, dawn was not far off. The bright star he had seen before lying down to rest gave him hope, a piece of light that darkness couldn't touch.

He and Frodo woke, hand in hand, to another day of bitter walking. Sam felt calmed and ready, better for the sleep, but Frodo was not so blessed.

"Sit for a moment, Sam, let me wake up fully. Tell me what sort of life you would have chosen, had we stayed in the Shire."

"Why, just the life I had, all I wanted was mine already," Sam replied.

"You didn't want to marry? You'd be a good father and husband, I'd wager, after the way you've cared for me on this adventure."

"Well," Sam ducked his head, a small smile plucking at his features. "I do find myself thinking of little ones, calling me Dad and asking for stories at bed-time."

Frodo almost smiled himself, which was enough to keep Sam talking as they bit into their breakfast, dry mouthfuls and brackish water.

"And if you have a family of your own, then things will go on as they are forever. My sons can work for your sons, and with any luck their lives will be less worrisome than ours have been of late."

"But who will be their mothers?" Frodo tried to eat the meat from Faramir's rations and choked it down with a gulp. "You don't get sons with only fathers."

"That Rosie Cotton's a pretty one, no mistake. Hair as soft as spring rain, and her lips are awfully red."

"Ah, of all the luck. You picked the girl I'd chosen for myself, Sam." Frodo's chuckle was cut off as he cough harshly, the food sticking in his throat. "I can't eat this, it won't go down."

"You've got to have something, Mr Frodo dear. Please try."

"No, Sam, I can't."

Sam wrung his hands together in worry, pulling open the scratch from the thorn branches as he did so. The cut stung in the oily air, warm drops of blood welling up to the skin. With a sudden idea, Sam held the injured hand out to Frodo.

"Here. I don't know how much help it'll be, but it'll go down easy enough."

Frodo shook his head. "I couldn't, you need your strength."

"So do you," shrugged Sam. "I can spare a little. Please, take it."

Nodding warily, Frodo put his mouth to the wound and suckled hungrily. Sam yelped in surprise as the hot roughness of Frodo's tongue lapped at the blood, and he found himself thinking of sweet young Rosie again.

Years ago, down by the Pool at Bywater, she had asked him to twist daisy chains around her ankles, so that she'd leave petals behind when she danced.

"You never dance with me, Sam," she'd complained with a pout. "Ted steps on my toes and stink-breathes on my shoulders, but at least he asks me." Then, after a pause, Rosie had grinned. "I bet you'd dance if it was Mr Frodo doing the asking."

Now, with Frodo's teeth nipping at the back of his hand, Sam thought Rosie might see more than most would credit her with.

"What a pity it is we can't both marry the lass and all live together, by a thing like that isn't done save for 'under the Shadow', as me gaffer says."

Frodo sat up, wiping his own hand across his face, a dark smear still left across the mouth.

"Seems a fitting enough way to describe the world we're in now, doesn't it? If we were ever to make it back, Sam, I would be honoured to share a wife and a home with you. That is, if you'd have me?"

Sam grinned. "Well, Mr Frodo, I think I could agree to that. After all, your lips are awfully red."

They walked, and they walked, and it seemed they would never be done with the walking, but finally they reached their destination, and stood before the cracks of Doom. Sam had never felt so exhausted in his life.

"I have come," Frodo said. "But I do not choose now what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The ring is mine!"

He vanished from sight.

Before Sam could react or cry out, a force knocked into him from behind and leathery fingers gripped at his neck, cutting into his windpipe.

"Rings and friends, then, Precious, it all comes to nassty choices. Nice master has to give one to Smeagol, is it the cruel hobbit or the Precious? We can bites into necks with teeth, but master wouldn't let that happen to his friend? Friends have necks that go crack like fish bones."

Frodo came back into view, his face clouded with confusion. He took a step, faltered. "Sam..." The dark spell seemed to lift from his features for a moment. They stood, three unmoving figures locked in am impasse. Then Frodo's face hardened.

"Temptation tricked me, but I see clearly now. It whispers of power and love, but offers only slavery and torment. I cannot let it win, let me forget the true worth of things."

"Yes, give it to us, nice hobbits," Gollum crowed. Sam's eyes met Frodo's, and they each saw that the other was crying.

"I am sorry, Sam," whispered Frodo, and hurled the ring down into the fire.

"Precious!" Gollum screamed, and then his sharp stinging fangs bit down into Sam's neck, and it was as if every nerve and vein in Sam's body was suddenly caught back in the thorn bush. There was no way for him to know how long it lasted, for it felt like forever, but it was really only seconds before Frodo came to his rescue and wrenched Gollum away.

Sam was half-aware of Frodo pulling him along, footstep after footstep lost in a delirious blur as they ran. His shirt was slick with blood, but when he reached up to stop the wound his hand found no cut. They ran and ran until Sam stumbled and sank to his knees.

"I can't go a step more. I feel right strange. You keep on, Mr Frodo."

"Not without you, Sam. I fear Gollum's bite has put a poison in you."

"What..." Sam lost the thread of his thoughts as his eyes fixed on Frodo's white throat. He felt he could hear the beat of the blood underneath the skin. "What happened to Gollum?"

"He threw himself down after the ring." Frodo's voice was a hoarse whisper. "I know how he felt. I fear this is the end, Sam."

"At least we're together, then," Sam said. His mouth watered to know what Frodo tasted of.

"Yes." Frodo looked around at the desolate land, then turned back to Sam with a start of surprise and understanding. "Sam, your teeth!"

Sam ran his tongue along the line of his upper jaw, surprised to find the two teeth second from the front grown long and needle-sharp. Frodo was scrabbling at his own collar, freeing the base of his neck from the clothing. "Here, Sam, drink quickly. We may get away yet."

Without hesitation, Sam grabbed at Frodo, biting down on the soft pale skin offered to him. Frodo gave a whimper of surprise, head lolling back against Sam's steadying palm. He felt as if he were being washed clean, wrapped in cool silver light. Frodo's hips bucked, crushed in against Sam as they clutched at each other, rocking, rocking, oh, there was nothing but this in the world...

"Sam," Frodo managed to say. "Sam, we have to keep going."

Sam pulled away reluctantly, his face flushed and his eyes glittering as they never had before. The two of them kept on along the path down, moving as quickly as they could manage over the difficult rocks. Then Sam dropped to his knees once more, heaving violently. The blood that came up was mottled with black.

"Too many stings and stabs in me for it to be any use, then." Regret filled Frodo's voice. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"No point in sorries now. It doesn't matter," Sam gasped, trying to stand but sitting down again quickly. "At least we did it in the end."

"Yes. And if it hadn't been for Gollum, I wouldn't have found the strength to do it."

"Shame we'll never hear the ballads written for us," Sam put in ruefully. "I'm sure Rosie will sing them to her babies in their cradles."

Exhaustion overwhelmed them, then, as they sat together in the ash and dust, hands clasped together, and they slept. That's how the eagles found them.

When they woke, laughing and crying were all mixed and confused and tangled up together. In Sam's own words, it seemed that everything sad was coming untrue. A great many healers examined the two of them, and put salves on wounds and gave them tonics to drink. The infections would pass in time, though it would not be an easy road to recovery, and they would perhaps never heal entirely. Still, the years would cure them well enough, if they could stand a little coddling until then.

Sam would not be able to touch silver, or some things of Elvish make, until he shook off his illness, and would have to use an umbrella against the strong sun of midday. Frodo, too, was instructed to avoid harsh light. Those who needed to know of the situation were told, and did their best to keep the secret from everyone else. Whenever it was queried why Sam ate no food, only drinking a strange ruby-hued liquid from a wooden cup, somebody would be quick to explain it was a special healing draught, mixed with a sour cherry wine.

"It seems a shame," said Frodo as they settled down to sleep, their bones worn out from rest and laughter. "That health will return to both of us over the same time. By the time my sour cherry wine is palatable, you'll have lost the taste for it."

"I doubt a little sip now and then would do much harm," Sam chuckled.

"Might do us good, even."

"Wouldn't be right not to try."

The matter decided, Frodo reached out to pull Sam close; but rather than aim for the neck, as Frodo had expected, Sam pressed a kiss to Frodo's mouth and nipped at the skin just inside his cheek.

"Never known a sour wine that tasted so sweet," Sam muttered, the last word cut off in an 'oof' as Frodo pushed Sam down against the pillows, flicking his tongue against Sam's sharpened incisors teasingly. When Sam shifted down towards Frodo's throat he recieved a low hum of approval, the skin buzzing against his teeth as he bit down.

"Oh," Frodo managed to say, but that was all, his body and heartbeat speaking all the words his tongue had forgotten. It seemed a very long time before Sam was done with his 'little sip'. Then they kissed, and kissed again, and once more for good measure, and lay back.

"Do you think Rosie will have us, when we get back?" Sam pondered.

"Of course," Frodo assured him. "We're heroes, remember? And - if we continue on as we've been doing - by the time we return to the Shire, our lips will be awfully red indeed."

  



End file.
